Good evening dwellers of the night, for the suns reflection on our planetary offspring. It too is not forgotten as we who bask in its wonder often see more the days silken blue can never show. A shattered sky of the mind of a mad man, colors and events we try to prescribe a meaning too; to slow to realize that those events are not of what we see, they are what once was. Never to be what we see it as again, stars of creatures long beyond our mindset or comprehensions, burned by the violence of a dead star. Death not to one or two of the greatest species and greatest minds that have become the understanding and development of the cures to time and the devoid minds of the stunted. For they are the last to see such things as before the minds are to become shared to the infinite expanse. It burned away into the obscurity of broken atomic structures that have no memory, only a shattered sphere of rock and stone wrapped around a still burning core.

With boundless ideas that are not always to our own kind, to have such a unnatural and devout mindset to ones own glory, it is not but a vacant reproduction of thoughts once had in the infinite. They are brought forth by the ends of strings of once was a greater mind then all of us bound to one. Much as the time has granted us the world of wonder and development, it is not but a micro second to the vast interloper that is the cosmic misanthropes who are but the ones who are not here to help or hurt. Not to develop nor to destroy, they seek not us in the vast nexus of our little patch in our galaxy, they leave us to what we are, the very senseless roaches we are to them. Why become the god of roaches, why become a greater being that these mistakes of evolution that gave way to the destructors of atomic mass to just kill the ones, who, in the wars they create, take life of more then just the ones they call friends not twenty years in the later. This is the bounded truth, something we all fear and have created gods that would be the savior of such truths.

These are the thoughts that the night bring when looking into the devoid skies as are only to see what primitive eyes looking into a old and timeless expanse that has seen a endless sets of these very eyes are the harbored of endless woe. Yet the ones who are not yet gifted with this, they are yet to see greatness in the abyss. They see the potential as each day is not but a black void turned into memories of the past. Each day to face the dark and shapeless unknown is to give it memoriam of a named being, a construct of mind and sight. They become less then what they wore and cemented into the name bounded to it by our language. It is given a title and reason of existence.

This is what I fear more and more every day, that the sight of the many will take the beautiful dark mysteries and the cosmic abyss becomes not but a name title that takes away all its glory in shadow. It becomes humanified, it becomes boring. So lets not name all things that sail the nights skies just yet, let not the sails of the wonder and timeless expanse become not but a torn vail that hides nothing more.

Much Love

Until Later.

Your Friendly Ginger From The Woods.